


Gone Where the Goblins Go

by greerwatson



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: Natalie is reluctant to go to see her grandmother's lawyer when the old lady dies.





	Gone Where the Goblins Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Purselover2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purselover2/gifts).



> This story elaborates on the backstory for Natalie that was introduced in the Season Three episode, "Dead of Night".

_This is the Last Will and Testament of me, Natalya Maria Balandin née Sukhareva…._

 

Natalie got the news in a phone call in the wee hours of the morning.

It was not perhaps the best way to be told that her grandmother had died:  standing in her nightie at the phone in the living room with Sydney twining hopefully about her ankles.  On the other hand, it could have been a knock at the door and two uniformed police officers who knew her in her coveralls, gloves, and booties.  As it was, the official notification was delivered by the same hospital chaplain whose calls she’d been ignoring ever since Nana Tash had been admitted to Guelph General Hospital.  As the patient’s condition had weakened, his calls had come daily; but she’d been ever firmer in her refusal to accede to the old woman’s wish to see her.  Despite this, he maintained a professional sympathy as he told her that her grandmother had “passed away”.

A flat simple “dead” was the word Natalie used in reply.  Dead to her then, and now, and ever more.

She did not drive to Guelph.  There seemed no point.

 

_I APPOINT Andrew Taverner, solicitor in the Province of Ontario, to be Executor and Trustee of this my Last Will and Testament._

 

At any death there are formalities.  The law will have its way, will ye nil ye.  The next call came that afternoon.  The lawyer’s name was familiar, though not in that context:  he was an old friend of the family.  Over the years, Natalie had seen him grow from lightly grizzled to silver at the occasional parties held by her grandparents.  “I know you have a busy life, Dr. Lambert,” he said firmly over the phone, “but this isn’t something you can put off indefinitely.  And no:  you will have to come to Guelph.  It’s not _that_ far, after all—just an hour or so.”

The funeral, she concluded as she hung up.  Well, yes:  not something that could be “put off indefinitely”, indeed!  She rolled her eyes.

In the lab that evening she whinged to Grace.  At the other woman’s look of astonishment, she hurriedly pled the nuisance of work interfering with family responsibilities, and accepted Grace’s commiserations on her grandmother’s death.  They were interrupted by the phone.  Natalie left the Coroner’s Building for a new crime scene and a fresh corpse.  There, to her stifled inward seething, Nick and Schanke proferred their own verbal solace:  Grace had been busy on the phone.

 

_I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby REVOKE all former Wills, Codicils, or other Testamentary Dispositions made by me at any time and declare this to be and contain my Last Will and Testament._

 

“Oh, come on, Nick, _please_ ,” Natalie said. It sounded embarrassingly like a child’s plea; and she flushed and straightened, metaphorically and physically.  “It’s your day off on Thursday,” she continued, in something closer to her usual tone of voice.  “It gets dark early enough at this time of year that we can arrive in plenty of time for usual office hours.  I just … I … don’t want to go alone, okay?”

Nick hesitated.  Driving out of the city was something he preferred to avoid.  Mechanical transport, even his well-tended (but elderly) Caddy, was too prone to malfunction, potentially stranding him outside at dawn.  Still, Guelph was not _that_ far.  And Natalie needed him.  He had always found it hard to deny a damsel in distress.

“I’ll pick you up at your apartment,” was all he said.

The drive was awkward.  Nick dropped the occasional comment, but was answered in monosyllables at most:  he concluded that the death of Natalie’s “Nana Tash” was troubling her.  He thought talking about the dear departed might help, and got a curt refusal.  Only when they reached the outskirts of Guelph did Natalie break her silence to give directions.

The offices of Taverner, Macleod, and Cieszynski were downtown, in a large converted Victorian house.  Beside a fine oak door, a brass plaque was discreetly screwed to the brownish brick.  Inside, the fittings were surprisingly modern, the walls painted a fashionable blue, the secretary somewhat younger than Natalie.  She must have buzzed her boss, for he came out immediately, hand outstretched.  “Good to see you again,” he said, “though in such sad circumstances, of course.”

Natalie shook his hand automatically.  He looks past ready to retire, she thought, remembering the upright man at her grandparents’ parties, and recalled her manners enough to say, “I see you’re the senior partner now.  Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and directed the secretary to bring coffee.  With a faint, questioning flicker of an eye towards Nick, he ushered them into his office, gestured to a pair of leather-upholstered chairs, and went round behind a large _faux_ walnut desk, leaving the door ajar.

 

_I DIRECT all my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses to be paid and satisfied by my Executor as soon as conveniently may be after my death._

 

“I suppose you need instructions about the funeral,” Natalie started briskly.

“Amongst other things,” Mr. Taverner said, a little taken aback.

“Well, I don’t know anything about funeral homes in Guelph,” she said flatly.  “Can you deal with it?”

Nick put his hand gently on her arm.  She glanced down, and then ignored the intervention.  “Nat?” he said, very softly.

“Yes, I can do that,” said Mr. Taverner, a bit formally.  “I assume you’ll want the funeral service at Sacred Heart?”

 _No, just the cheapest cremation, and scatter the ashes to the winds._   Natalie sighed.  She supposed there were other people’s feelings to consider.  Sara’s.  Taverner’s.  Old friends of Nana’s and colleagues of her grandfather’s.  She stifled the temptation to outrage the lot of them.  “That would be suitable,” she said with restraint.

“Dr. Lambert is understandably distressed over her grandmother’s sudden death,” said Nick to the lawyer.

“Yes, of course.  I understand.”

From his expression, Taverner didn’t; but then there was clearly much that Nick didn’t grasp, either.  Natalie didn’t talk much about her family—except her brother, and not even him all that much since his death.  “You okay?” he murmured, leaning closer.

She shook off his hand.  “Fine,” she muttered back.  More loudly, “I just want to get these formalities over with and go home.  Sorry.  I apologize.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Mr. Taverner to her.  “It’s a distressing time.”

Taking a deep breath, Natalie said with painful courtesy, “If it would not be too much trouble for you, as I no longer live in Guelph and would have difficulty making arrangements long distance, I would appreciate it if you—as my grandmother’s executor—would deal, not only with the obvious legal matters pertaining to the estate, but also with everything related to the funeral, memorial, obituaries, and so on.  And take the appropriate compensation, of course.  Also,” she added after a moment, “if you could phone me with the particulars, please.  I’ve contacted Sara:  she won’t come:  she can’t leave Amy on her own; and it’s too soon to bring her to _another_ funeral.  But I know she’ll want to send flowers.”

Unexpectedly, this speech elicited a smile; and the lawyer relaxed into the old family friend.

“Yes, I can do that,” he said gently.  “Do you want obituaries in the _Metropolitan Examiner_ and the other Toronto dailies?”

“And the _Mercury_ , of course,” said Natalie.  “As the local paper, it’s what people here read.”

Mr. Taverner nodded, reached for a pen, and made a note.

“And talking about ‘reading’,” put in Nick, “I assume there’s a will.”

 

_I DIRECT my Executor to give the residue of my estate to my husband, Leonid Balandin.  If my husband should predecease me or if he should not survive me by thirty (30) days, then I direct my Executor to give the residue of my estate to my daughter, Maria Anna Balandin._

 

“Of course, your mother died years ago,” said Mr. Taverner, looking up from the will form.  “Without further designation of heirs, I initially thought Mrs. Balandin had therefore died intestate—in which case the division of the estate among her relatives is prescribed by law.  However, going further through her desk, I found a holographic codicil.”  At Natalie’s slight frown, he added, “An addition to the will, handwritten in its entirety.  From the date, she wrote it shortly after your parents died.”  He lifted the will to pick up the codicil, which was written on lined notepaper, and read, “My daughter Maria Anna Lambert née Balandin having predeceased me, I direct my Executor to divide and give the residue of my estate in equal parts to my grandchildren—”  He choked up, and put his hand to his mouth.  “Sorry.  It was an appalling shock to everyone.”  Once again more old family friend than lawyer, he added, “I drove your grandmother up to Toronto for the funeral.  Richie was very dear to her.”

“Yes,” said Natalie thinly.  She remembered Nana Tash’s arrival, though not her escort.  There had been, perforce, a perfunctory shaking of hands:  she could do no less in courtesy.  Not in public.  No way would she have made a scene at Richie’s funeral.

“I did try to get Natash—your grandmother, that is—to consider her will when we got back,” he said.  He bit his lip.  To Natalie’s surprise, he actually looked perturbed.  “She was not in the mood.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” said Natalie absently.

“Yes, unfortunately.  Or fortunately, I suppose, depending on your perspective.”

She looked puzzled.

“Given the terms of the will,” he explained—or, she supposed, _thought_ he explained.  (It meant nothing to her.)

“I get half,” said Natalie.  “That’s clear enough.  I suppose Amy inherits Richie’s half.”

Mr. Taverner looked profoundly awkward.  “It is a great pity,” he began, “that your grandmother composed the codicil herself instead of consulting someone in our practice.  We could have advised her on the wording.”  And then he told her the implications.

“That is so unfair!” Natalie cried indignantly.  “I’m quite sure that’s not what Nana Tash intended!”

“I agree,” said Mr. Taverner.  “But your grandmother did not mention your brother’s children.  Nor yours, either, for that matter.  Of course, you were both very young at the time you went to live with them.  Then again, it’s unfortunate—from the perspective of Richard’s heirs—that she used a commercial will kit in the first place.  If she had had a lawyer draw it up, anyone could have told her….”  He broke off.  “Well, that’s neither here nor there.  I suppose your brother’s widow might challenge the terms on her daughter’s behalf:  it’s possible she might succeed.  There’s nothing I can do about it.  As executor, I’m bound to the actual terms of the will.”

“Yes, I suppose you are,” said Natalie.  Her thoughts were acid, but did not cut through to her expression.

“Once probate has gone through,” he offered, “the estate will be yours to do with as you please.  You can set up a trust for your niece if you wish.”

“I wish,” she said firmly.

He smiled genially.  “If you still feel the same way at that time, my firm will be glad to act for you.”

Nick stirred, drawing the lawyer’s eye.  “How large an estate are you talking about?”

Mr. Taverner looked at him consideringly, and then addressed Natalie.  “Your grandfather’s business was sold after his death and the proceeds invested.  Plus the house, of course, and personal property.  Mind you, there are taxes to be paid.  Still … I won’t say you’ll be rich—well, certainly not McCain or Weston rich!—but Mrs. Balandin was quite comfortably off.”

“And all of it’s mine,” said Natalie thinly.

“You’ve complained more than once about your student loans,” said Nick, very quietly.  “If nothing else, it sounds as though you can pay them off.”

“More than enough,” put in Mr. Taverner.

“As for the rest of it,” said Nick gently, “you should go and see the house, Natalie.  There may be things there you want.”  Before she could protest, he turned to Taverner.  “I assume,” he asserted crisply, “there’ll be no problem with Dr. Lambert removing personal items, given that she’s the sole heir.  Perhaps we can go round there now?”  Seeing that the lawyer was about to demur, he added, “Since Dr. Lambert’s job is a busy one, and we’re in the area anyway.”  He spoke with the assurance both of a vampire and a man possessed of a _very_ large fortune; and the lawyer bowed to both.

 

_I DIRECT my Executor to use his/her discretion in the realization of my estate, with power to my Executor to sell any part of my estate at such time or times, in such manner and upon such terms, and either for cash or credit or for part cash and part credit, as my Trustee may in his/her discretion decide upon._

 

Mr. Taverner unlocked the door.  Natalie paused on the threshold, took a deep breath, and walked into the familiar hallway.  The old Turkish rug was perhaps a little more worn, and the black Bell phone on the demi-lune table replaced with a modern model; but things seemed otherwise unchanged.  Well, apart from needing dusting:  she ran a finger critically along the lower frame of one of the pictures.

Mr. Taverner smiled ruefully.  “Yes, I’m afraid things were a bit neglected while she was in hospital; and I’ve not arranged for a cleaning firm.”

“You’ll need to do that,” put in Nick from behind them.  He closed the front door.  “I assume Natalie doesn’t plan on moving back to Guelph—”  This elicited a raised brow from the busy pathologist.  “—so the house will presumably be put on the market.  It needs to be in a fit state to be shown.”

“Yes,” said Natalie firmly.  “The estate will be wound up, or whatever lawyers call it.”  She looked around again and made up her mind.  “Honestly, we might as well drive back to Toronto.”

The lawyer met Nick’s eyes.

“Well, as we’re here,” Nick said smoothly.  “I know it all brings back memories; but—”

“No,” interrupted Natalie briskly.  “Let’s go.  I don’t think there’s anything here I want, anyway.  Why don’t we just leave it at that?”  She turned to Mr. Taverner.  “We’ll let you get home.”  She forced a smile.  “Thank you.  It’s been—”

“It’s not just you!” said Nick sharply; and she swung back, startled, to stare at him.  “You said Sara wasn’t coming to the funeral.  Okay, it’s a long way; air fare’s not cheap; and Amy has school.  I get that.  But Amy also had a father, your brother, and you have no right—no _moral_ right, anyway, no matter who’s inherited the place!— _no right_ to toss out things that she might keep to remember her father by.  Family photos.  Things from your childhood … _his_ childhood.  Maybe things of your mother’s or your parents’ marriage.”  He paused.  “Did your grandmother have jewellery?  These paintings—”  He turned to point at those in the hall; a quick glance through the open door to the living room revealed more on the walls there.  “—hardly Old Masters; but they’re pleasant enough.”  He took a step to the nearest and peered close.  “They’re originals, signed.  No one of much importance; but they _do_ have value.”  He looked past Natalie to Taverner.  “If you’re planning an estate auction, these should be pulled for a specialist sale.  They’ll fetch more; and it’s your responsibility as executor….”

“Yes,” Mr. Taverner said.  After a pause, he said, “You seem to know what you’re talking about, Mr. … Knight, was it?”  Introductions had been scanty.

“Knight, yes,” said Nick.  “Nick Knight.”

“You’re a collector yourself?”

“Only in a minor way.  I’m a detective on the Toronto force.  I,” he hesitated, “met Natalie professionally at first; but we’ve become friends.  I came with her today,” and again he hesitated, “for moral support, I suppose you might say.  Not an easy visit for her, after all … under the circumstances.”  He smiled, man to man.

Natalie, silent through this exchange, interrupted their moment by stalking through to the living room.  “Fine,” she said.  “Photo albums.  Right.”  She headed to the bookcase in the corner, and found that—as she had expected—Nana Tash had not moved the albums from the deep bottom shelf where they’d always lived.  Ruthlessly, she hauled them out.  As Nick came up behind her, she rose with the pile in her arms and shoved them at him.

“Trunk of the car,” she ordered.  Then, with a wicked smile, she bent back to seize a large, leather-bound book.  “Family Bible:  I’ll bring _that_ one.  Spare you the weight.”

That dig, of course, went over Taverner’s head; but was not lost on Nick.

 

_If any person should become entitled to any share in my estate before reaching the age of majority, the share of such person shall be held and kept invested by my Executors and the income and capital or so much thereof as my Executors in their absolute discretion consider necessary or advisable shall be used for the benefit of such person until he or she attains the age of majority._

 

Natalie paused, her hand on the door to her old bedroom.  “I doubt there’s much in here,” she said.  “After I moved out, it became a sort of guest room.  From what Richie said, Amy slept here when they came to visit.”

Nick reached round her and turned the knob.  “We’ve done your brother’s room and your grandmother’s.  You might as well.”

Natalie sighed and pushed it open.  The primrose paint was new, as was the spread.  “Richie packed up after I left.  Boxed and mailed everything to the dorm.  It took most of the pocket money he’d saved:  my grandparents weren’t all that generous.”  She looked around, cursorily but sufficiently to confirm her dismissal.  “No, nothing.  We’ve got _his_ things, you know.  And Nana’s jewellery box.  Those’ll be the inheritance Amy’ll care about.”

“Spare room?”

This was met with silence.  Mr. Taverner had long since left for his dinner, helped (Natalie suspected) with a little subtle whammy.  They had the key:  they’d lock up when they left.  Nick had been absurdly thorough:  the lawyer had notes on quite a lot of the better pieces of furniture as well as the paintings.  “You can put them in storage,” Nick had told her.  “I’ll arrange it; and you can decide what you want to keep later.  You’ve told me before that you’ve outgrown that small apartment and the furniture you bought as a grad student.  You’ll be able to afford a bigger place now, you do realize that?”

He opened the door to the last remaining bedroom.  Natalie bit her lip.  He was too damned thorough, and she _really_ didn’t want to explain.  It was embarrassing—all the more so since she suspected he wouldn’t … couldn’t … understand.  She’d read enough history to know that it probably wouldn’t impact him in the same way it had her.  Times and customs had changed.  Mostly.

“Nick, why don’t you look up in the attic?” she said in sudden inspiration.  “There may be s-s-s-some trunks up there.  You should look in them.  And old toys!”  That should keep him busy for a bit, though she doubted he’d find much.  Nana Tash had made each of them pack their childhood up when they turned twelve, telling them they were too big now for such things.  She’d given the toys to charity—though what ‘charity’ did with them, Natalie couldn’t say.  Threw them out, probably.

Nick was looking at her quizzically.  “And—oh!” she remembered suddenly.  “Yes, the old Christmas tree decorations should be up there!  In a couple of boxes:  you should be able to find them.”

With a nod, he headed down the hall.  It was, he thought, a good thing that the ’62 Caddy was noted for its trunk space.

Christmas.  Natalie looked after him as he opened the door to the steep stairs going up.  Christmas was one of the _good_ memories.  Turkey and cranberry sauce; all of them singing carols as Nana played the piano; communally creating the glory of the tree, with its fragile old bells and balls. The good memories were the ones she did _not_ want to remember.  They undermined her.  Still, perversely, now she'd thought of the decorations, she found that she did actually want to keep them.

Nick’s feet disappeared from sight as he neared the top of the stairs.  He didn’t bother to turn on the light.

Natalie looked at the half-open door to the spare room.  It held the worst of the bad memories:  the ones she could never forget.  She tilted her head back, as if she could see through the ceiling into the attic.  Nick’s footsteps were light, but audible.  With _his_ hearing, he could tell by her breathing and her heartbeat where she was, wherever she went in the house.  She suspected he was all too aware of the stress she was under, that there was too much she hadn’t said.

He’d know if she didn’t go into the spare room.  He might or might not ask her why.  He might be tactful.  (He wasn’t always.)

Damn the man!  He kept too many mementos of his own eternity.  She’d seen some of them, been told their history:  there were a few that went back centuries.  Such preservation must at times have been hard to achieve and cost him much.  His past really mattered to him.  Some parts of it mattered desperately.  (It’s not all about you, Nick, she thought.  And _I’m_ not you.)  But he had his ghosts too.

She opened the door.

 

_If my daughter, Maria Anna Balandin should be a minor child at the time of my death, then I INSTRUCT that custody of said daughter should pass solely to my husband Leonid Balandin.  If my husband should predecease me....._

 

“I always wondered,” Natalie had said in the hall downstairs, “why we came to live with them.  I mean, we have cousins on my father’s side.  In fact, I’m godmother to Sharon’s little girl.”

“I was a junior partner then,” Mr. Taverner had said apologetically.  “However, it always has to do with the best interests of the child, you know.  Probably … if I recall, they live in Toronto, don’t they?  If you stayed here, in familiar surroundings, you could go to the same school, keep your friends.”

Familiar surroundings, thought Natalie bitterly.  She was certain that, had her parents been consulted, the Balandins would have been the last people they’d have chosen to be guardians to their children.  After all, Mama had grown up in this house:   she was “familiar” if anyone was.   _She knew._   She’d never…!  Never!  Nor would Dad.

She remembered that, before he’d discovered the misworded codicil, Mr. Taverner had thought Nana Tash intestate.  (It would have been better if she had been.)  On the other hand, she had at least had the foresight to make a will.  The Lamberts, young and healthy, had never considered that both of them might die together.  It had been a foul wet night, but they had gone insouciantly to the party all the same, leaving their children with a babysitter.  _They should have made a will,_ thought Natalie, not for the first time.

The spare room was unchanged.

She pushed the door closed.  It didn’t quite latch; but that wasn’t the point.  She looked at the protruding nail that had been hammered in behind it.  Nothing now hung there; but, in her day, that was where the strap had been kept.  Nana Tash’s one mercy, she supposed:  the children were not punished in their own room, or any other part of the house where they normally spent time.  They were thrashed only in this one room that was kept for visitors, and the strap tidied quietly away when the room reverted to its proper use.

It was impersonal, as only spare rooms can be.  There was a little vase of flowers, now dead; an empty wastepaper basket; a full box of Kleenex.  If she opened the closet, a half dozen empty hangers would dangle from the rod.  If guests were to visit, a clean towel and facecloth would be laid neatly folded on the bed.

Natalie remembered all too vividly the first time that _she_ was folded over the bed.  It had taken her too long to realize why Nana wanted her to take that position; and the assault of corporal punishment wounded her more deeply than the pain of the strap.  And the strap did hurt.  A lot.

What had happened to it?  Had it been thrown out when Richie grew up?  It was hardly the sort of thing one could give to charity.  (Well, she hoped not.)

She remembered that first offence:  complaining because Nana had bundled up her slacks and shorts in the charity bag, and replaced them with extra skirts and dresses.  Girls should not wear “boy’s clothes”.  Or climb trees, or roll in the leaves (showing your undies!), or scream rude things at their little brothers, or want to be a doctor like Dad.  Natalie had never quite caught on to what would next be deemed misbehaviour; so there had been far too many painful “lessons” to teach her how to act like a lady.

Bitterly, she remembered how Richie had seemed to get away with murder.  Not that he’d never been punished, of course, but … “boys will be boys”.

Richie wanted to be a lawyer:  to her grandparents that was a matter of pride.  _She’d_ been grudgingly allowed the local university in the expectation that she’d get her M.R.S.  Instead, she’d secretly filled out the forms, and run off to U. of T. on the basis of a government grant, a student loan, and two part-time jobs.  She’d never looked back.

She looked round the spare room.  There was nothing here she wanted to take with her now—and too much she could never truly leave behind.

As she closed the door behind her, she began to hum, almost imperceptibly and almost unaware.

 

_I HEREBY EMPOWER my Trustee to execute all deeds and other documents required to be completed in the administration of my estate._

_IN TESTIMONY WHEREOF I have to this last Will and Testament subscribed my name Natalya Maria Balandin…._

 

“Pull up!” Natalie said on impulse.

Nick gave her a quick quizzical glance, but her head was turned to look out the window.  Their route from the Balandin house to the 401 led through the centre of town.  Despite the late hour, there were some places still open, restaurants and a couple of movie theatres.  By the time he found a parking space, they’d gone almost a block.  Natalie flung the car door open and got out, casting her eye back down the street to locate Ye Olde Ice-Creme Parlour.

“What is it?” Nick asked, getting out slowly, wondering if she’d spotted someone she knew.

“Down there!”  She flung up her arm to point.

With longer strides, he caught her up as she strode down the sidewalk; but her path to the parlour was headlong, nor did she pause to let him open the door for her.  He didn’t ask her _why_ she felt a sudden impulse towards ice cream at midnight.  Had she turned to him, though, she would have seen his puzzlement.

A bell tinkled brightly as they entered.

Natalie looked at the proffered menu carefully, and ordered a banana split.  “Three scoops,” she said to the waitress, with a little smile, “strawberry, coconut, and mango,” and (to the next query) “caramel, pineapple, and strawberry syrup.”  The woman scribbled on the pad and left.  Natalie looked round the parlour, her smile broadening.  Humming gently, she sat back comfortably into the padded seat.  Nick recognized once again the tune from the house. It sounded vaguely familiar; but he couldn’t quite place it.

When the banana split arrived in its oval dish, Natalie dug right in.  There ensued a slow demolishment of mounds of pastel colour, mingled bright dribbles of syrup, chopped nuts and rainbow sprinkles, a large dollop of whipped cream, and (inevitably) the cherry on top.

Nick watched, bemused, feigning to sip at his coffee.  He could have sworn that she’d been talking about watching her weight.

Towards the end she slowed, glanced up, and caught his eye.  “What?” she asked, a bit defensively.

“Nothing.”  There was a smear of brown syrup at the corner of her mouth and a tiny dab of whipped cream on her nose.  “You seem to be enjoying that.  Reminds me a bit of the old Knickerbocker Glory—not that I ever tried one.”

Natalie smirked.  “Benefits of mortality.”  Absently, she swiped at the tickle on her nose.

“Here, let me get that.”  Nick fished out a handkerchief from his pocket—it was cloth, and neatly folded, of course—and, as she leant slightly forward, wiped the cream off.

She grabbed his hand before he could pull it away, snorted at the sight of the dollop, and said, “So much for growing up.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You better not!”  She mock-glared at him, and dipped her spoon back in the ice cream.  Then she paused with a little smile, and sang again—wordlessly, just “dum-de-dum”—and again he semi-recognized the tune.

“You’ve been in an odd mood,” he ventured.

“Not really,” she said.  “All things considered.”

“Well,” he said, pointing to the remains of the banana split, “you wouldn’t ordinarily order something like that.  Too many calories, you’d say.”  With a smile, he added, “Though I bet you loved those as a kid.  Reminiscing over your well-spent youth, are you?”

“Not exactly.”  Her face hardened.  “Not at all.”  Quietly, almost under her breath, she began to sing.

♫ Ding-dong the wicked witch is dead  
Wake up you sleepyhead  
Rub your eyes, get out of bed  
Wake up, the wicked witch is dead.

Behind the counter, the server didn’t look up; but the words were clear enough to Nick, and the tune the same she’d been humming before.  “What _is_ that?” he asked.  “I don’t think I know it.”

“It’s from _The Wizard of Oz_.”

He knew the name: it was the title of a movie.  He’d never seen it, though.

Her lips twisted.  “Yeah, the witch is dead.”  She looked down at the dish, spoon poised.  She muttered, “All week people have been offering me their condolences.  About what?  My life with Nana?”

“She was your grandmother,” said Nick gently.  “Of course people want to—”

“She was horrible,” said Nat, so quietly even he could barely hear her.  “I loathed and despised her.  She made my life an utter misery.”  She dug her spoon in deep, and lifted her eyes to meet Nick’s.

He’d sensed her tension:  heard it in her heartbeat, smelled it in her sweat.  Lacking context….

“Don’t you understand why I came in here?” she asked.

He could only frown slightly and shake his head.

She lifted the next spoonful of ice-cream, banana, and syrup; and smiled.  “Nick, this is a _celebration_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been written to the prompt: Gen Request, Natalie and Nick, celebrating something.
> 
> The title and quoted lines come from the _The Wizard of Oz_ song, “Ding-dong! The witch is dead”, written by E. Harburg, E.Y. Harburg, and Harold Arlen.
> 
>  
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> 1\.  Guelph is a small city in southern Ontario.  Guelph General Hospital and Sacred Heart Catholic church are real.  So was the _Guelph Mercury_ , though (like so many other local newspapers) it has since ceased publication.  In canon, we do not know where Natalie comes from; but, as her brother also lived in Toronto, it is not unreasonable to assume that they either come from there, or from somewhere relatively local in southern Ontario.
> 
> 2\.  The McCain and Weston families are notedly among the richest in Canada.
> 
> 3\.  For those unfamiliar with the term “getting your M.R.S.”, it is a slang expression about the true intentions of a young woman who attends university less to get a degree than catch herself a husband.
> 
> 4\.  In Canada, “U. of T.” refers to the University of Toronto.
> 
> 5\.  “The 401” is the major east-west highway crossing southern Ontario.
> 
> 6\.  A Knickerbocker Glory is a particularly elaborate type of sundae.  Unlike a banana split, it is served in a tall glass and eaten with a long spoon.  Its various layers usually include fruit as well as ice cream.  Often there are additional decorations besides the traditional whipped cream, flavoured syrups, chopped nuts, and cherries. 
> 
> 7\.  Nick’s unfamiliarity with _The Wizard of Oz_ is established in the Season Three episode “Sons of Belial” when Tracy quotes a familiar line from the movie and he fails to recognize it.
> 
> 8\.  Richard, Sara, and Amy Lambert appear in the Season One episode, “I Will Repay”, in which Richard is murdered.  Cynthia Lambert Luce, Natalie’s goddaughter, is murdered in the Season Two episode, “Undue Process”.   It is fanon (based on the child’s middle name) that her mother, Sharon, is a cousin of Natalie’s.  Nana Tash’s ghost appears in the Season Three episode, “Dead of Night”, which reveals Natalie’s anger at being beaten by her.  The names of Natalie’s mother and grandfather and maiden name of Nana Tash are, however, original to this story.


End file.
